Liberation: The Falling Sky
by M. Rosenkov
Summary: Fenris and Bethany: Two people. Two kinds of slavery. Two ways to live. Two ways to be free.
1. there he wanders

'_A fathomless and boundless deep, _

_There we wander, there we weep; _

_On the hungry craving wind _

_My Spectre follows thee behind.'_

—_Broken Love_, William Blake

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><p><strong>i.<strong>

**there he wanders.**

It takes Marius seventy-three minutes to die.

He lies in the opposite corner, drawing in the stale air of the room, one hand resting on the wound in his stomach. Thick, rich blood dribbles between his fingers, pooling on the floor beneath him and soaking into the rotten wood.

Fenris counts the ticking seconds, drawing each one out in his head, his sword still resting in his hands. The steady _drip, drip, drip_ of blood from the metal has eased, and silence stretches across the room, louder than any scream.

And he is unmoving, carved from stone, green eyes glassy in the faint light as he quietly watches the death. He is as patient as he can be, but time is crawling and Fenris is beginning to grow restless. Like a leaky faucet in his mind, he needs more, more, more, and unconsciously his leg twitches, foot tapping on the ground, fingers dancing across his blade.

Time does not quicken. Another minute passes. Slowly. Fenris stills, and panicked, Marius coughs. The sound is wet and throaty—the echo of his inevitable death. Words are mumbled softly, vanishing into the stale emptiness of the room once they leave his lips.

"Tell me what you know."

Fenris's haunting voice hangs in the air between them, breaking the deafening silence. An acidic taste rests on his tongue, and his gaze follows the small movements of Marius's chest as he struggles for air, lungs slowly filling with his own blood.

"Or what? You'll kill me?" The man laughs bitterly, a harsh, crackling sound that is too loud for the small space they are in. His head lolls to the side, black eyes glaring across the expanse of the room. Fenris shifts under the blank stare. "I'm already dead elf—by your hand or his, it's all the same."

"True," Fenris replies. His voice is eerily calm, but his heart is thumping against his chest, anxiously desperate for a vice. "But I can make this painless."

Marius stares at him, face indecipherable. A moment passes, filled with the increasing loudness of breaths that rip through his chest—then the whisper, so soft, barely audible:

"He will stop at nothing until he has you."

Silence washes over Fenris with his words, like the cold, uncompromising air of the room. He is not sure why this surprises him so—or if it is surprise he is feeling at all, and perhaps a deeper, more forbidden emotion.

It has been a long time since he felt genuine fear. Fifty-eight days, to be exact.

His hands tighten around the hilt of his sword unconsciously, and he takes a deep breath to calm the increasing frenzy of his heart. "That won't happen. Tell me."

More silence. Marius turns his gaze to the roof once more, face illuminated briefly by a flash of lightning that splits open the sky outside. The first sounds of rain patter against the fogged window by the door, reminding both men that the world outside still exists. Just.

It has been sixty-five minutes. Marius's eyes are flickering shut, every second more important—more desperate—than the last. Fenris's heart clenches in fear and worry as he feels time slipping through his fingers. Green eyes dart to the vacant walls around them, searching for testimonials as to why he is here, why he hasn't run. But the walls are silent against the press of his glare, the taunting blank canvas of a man who took all his independence. He can't keep living like this—he needs answers. He needs freedom. He needs something, something, _something_—

"Th-the alienage," Marius rasps, voice barely audible over the steady drumming of rain outside. "All the details—all Danarius's things ... have been smuggled in..."

"Did you say all?" Fenris's eyes snap to the dying man, body tensing in anticipation.

Marius lets out a shuddering breath. "H-he couldn't sneak Kirkwall in otherwise."

_Of course. _

Coughs tear through Marius's chest, his body jerking with each struggling breath, but Fenris makes no movement to help the man.

He could be lying. It could be a trap. But the potential of having all of Danarius's possessions—his amulet, his staff—is an opportunity Fenris cannot afford to ignore.

But going to the alienage could be the death of him.

There are moments when he feels time-warped, trapped by memories that remind him of why he had started to run in the first place. The pain, the emptiness, the lack of control... It took all of him to build the courage to run from that, and now, he starts to wonder if he is doing himself an injustice by quitting the chase.

Clenching his fist, Fenris stands, walking slowly towards Marius. The man is completely still now. Cold, lifeless eyes stare up at Fenris, seeing straight through him, judging him like the first time they met all those years ago. He toys with the idea of burning the slaver's body and releasing his soul into whatever next world there is, but Marius doesn't deserve that much.

He—all of them—deserve to rot.

Fenris steps outside, breathing deeply the cool, salty night air. Rain still falls from the sky in torrents, soaking his slender form immediately and freezing him to his core. Droplets that fall from his hair trace his jawline in rivets, delicate like the touch of a lover. He relishes it. Being inside that room—watching Marius slowly die before him, as if suspended in time—has left Fenris feeling dirty and polluted, and the cold blanket of rain gives him a false sense of cleanliness.

He can't remember the last time he showered.

Mind a chaotic whirlwind of doubts and thoughts, he begins to walk the familiar path to Lowtown, barely aware of the thugs, whores and beggars that shelter in the shadows, out of the rain and out-of-sight. It feels as if he has been wandering for years, searching for the freedom that would reel him and tell him he belongs. He thought that by now, his old master would be dead by his own hand. He thought that Kirkwall would be nothing more than a faint memory, like all the other nameless towns and cities he'd graced. But the sharp pricks of rain that hit his face and the wind from the ocean that batters the flimsy wooden buildings he passes are all too real. The air presses against his skin, cold and claustrophobic as Marius's words ebb and flow against the walls of his mind, daring him to make the next move—daring him to keep running or to turn and face the wolf that haunts his shadow.

He knows his answer. He knows it's the only way.

Fenris slows to a stop in front of the familiar, decrepit building of The Hanged Man. The rain is falling harder now, and the street has quickly turned into an ankle-deep river that swirls around his bare feet. Unsurprisingly, it does nothing to quell the regular congregation of drunks outside the pub, stumbling over one another and retching in the barrels that line the outside wall. It is a disgusting sight, and usually one that has him turning right back around for somewhere more sophisticated, but the allure of cheap alcohol and forgetting his worries for the night is strong. He pushes open the fragile door without a second thought.

The bar is overcrowded, naturally. Every Lowtown hermit and his dog have come to seek shelter from the rain, and it takes Fenris a full minute to push through the crowd to get to the bar. The sounds and smells overpower his senses, churning his stomach, and he orders his drink impatiently, desperate to escape the irritating music and the stifling humidity that surrounds the bar. The barman pours his ale immediately, but the beverage cannot come fast enough. He doesn't have enough _time_ to wait for such trivial things—to surround himself with such simpletons. Danarius and Marius feel a world away now, and it does not bring him the solace it should.

His stomach is stone as he hands over his coin and takes the tankard. He then flees to the back of the room, eager for a refuge and a distraction. A small table with one familiar dwarven occupant sits in the corner, secluded in the shadows cast by the fire nearby. He waves at Fenris frantically, pile of cards ready and waiting in his hand.

With a diminutive, bitter smile, Fenris makes his way over. He pulls out the chair and eases down, relishing in the warmth emanating from the fireplace. It crackles merrily by his side, and he slips off his gauntlets to hold his cold palms out to the flame.

"Kid," Anso greets, fat little fingers immediately dealing. The two cards slap down on the wooden surface of the table in a neat, modest pile before the elf. "How'd it go?"

Fenris turns from the fire, wrapping a hand around his mug. It is warm. It shouldn't be. A sneer settles onto his face as he looks down at the watery-brown liquid in his cup, murmuring, "Not well."

The truth sounds bitter and hollow once spoken, and silence settles between them, filled only by the shouts and cheers of the pub. He can hear everything clearly—in the distance, someone is laughing, another is vomiting, and one woman is flirting (unsuccessfully) with the tavern wench, Edwina. Senses bombarded, Fenris lifts the mug to his lips, drinking deeply to drown out the cacophony—the world. Anso's hands start their artistic dance of shuffling, a blur of motion in front of Fenris's eyes.

"I thought my contacts were good this time, kid. I'm sorry." He looks over to his companion with sad eyes, placing the pile of cards on the table. "How are ya feeling?"

There is a sense of awkwardness between them as Anso stares across the table, worried. It is unfamiliar territory—a stark contrast to the usual impersonal business dealings between himself and the dwarf.

"Your contact was right," Fenris says slowly, lowering his cup, "but the slaver hunting me gave me information."

"Information?" Anso attempts to hide his interest by rubbing his beard with his hand, but those dark, inquisitive eyes don't leave Fenris for a second.

He pauses, pondering over what to say to Anso as he checks his hand. His eyes track the familiar bent edges and creased middles of the cards, and he can't help but pause for a beat. They're distinctly familiar: cards that Anso has played before. He remembers clearly because he lost nearly all his coin that night to the dwarf, and two bottles of wine.

He pulls out five silvers, throwing them to the centre of the table, relishing in the delicate satisfaction he feels. Then carefully—for careful is the only way information should be dealt—he speaks. "Danarius is said to be in Kirkwall tomorrow night. All the details are in a small house in the alienage."

"The alienage?" Anso repeats sceptically, throwing down a gold piece.

Eyeing the gold piece suspiciously, Fenris's fingers lightly dance across the coin pouch on his belt. Anso only bets gold when he has a good hand, and he starts to doubt his own hand is _that_ good. He hesitates, wondering if he should fold or keep going.

"You think it's a trap?" Anso ventures. "Ya old master is that clever? So far he's been a botch job."

"I _know_ it is a trap." He chooses to keep the hand and throws in another silver coin. "Those were just slavers, hired to do the work he wouldn't dare do. If _he_ comes..." Another pause; another beat of hesitation. Then, "There is something I need of his that could be in the house. I ... I can't do this alone."

The admission has him instantly edgy. He can feel his shoulder muscles constricting with the tension, and it takes all his willpower to not throw in all his coin or just stop playing altogether.

To leave and be done with it. To run. Bare feet hitting the mud. Bark beneath his fingers, soil and sand between his toes—the heat of a fire on his palms—the fear of being followed drowning his soul. His life, less than two months ago.

Anso throws two silvers on the table. They twirl on their rounded edge, as if desperate not to touch the wood. "I can get you help, kid. Mercenaries?"

Fenris slaps his hand over the coin, and they fall flat beneath his palm, ceasing their spherical dance. He can't run any longer.

"Preferably good ones."

Anso raises an eyebrow. "You have the coin?"

"Not yet." Taking the gamble, Fenris places his cards face-up on the table, spreading them out with the tips of his fingers.

Anso's beady eyes bug out of his head as he sees the Priestess and Magician lain before him.

"Sodding elf," he mumbles, throwing his pair down and shoving the coins towards his companion. "I'll get your mercenaries, kid. Probably going to be best if we feed them some bull so the whole..." His voice fades into the din and he waves a languid hand towards his partner. "... Just be ready," he finishes with a sigh.

Fenris smirks, gathering the silver in his hands and standing quickly. "Lowtown: tomorrow night."

And then he is out the door, disappearing into the pouring rain and comforting blanket of the night, until he is nothing more than a small glimmer of blue to the drunken eye.

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><p><strong>Authors Note: <strong>Hello and welcome to my NaNo Novel of last year! I have worked so hard on this story - plot, characters, everything - but I can't take all the credit. **I obviously don't own anything**, and I would never have uploaded this if it weren't for my lovely writing twin and endless helper, Monica (MC_HK). I can't thank her enough. Also, thank you for reading this first chapter! My updates will be weekly/fornightly/monthly, but though inconsistent, I will not stop updating. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it!  
>- Mahalia<p> 


	2. upon her painted ocean

**Authors Note: Penname was changed (from Kittieth)! Sorry for any confusion, and while I'm here: I am so, so sorry about the wait. Computer, writer's block and sickness really put this on hold. However, thank you for the favourites, follows and reviews! I haven't replied to any because I don't want to harass people's inboxes – but if you would like a reply, just let me know! And know I am so grateful for any feedback you leave.**

**Thanks guys!**

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><p>'<em>Day after day, day after day,<em>

_We stuck, nor breath nor motion;_

_As idle as a painted ship,_

_Upon a painted ocean.'_

—_Rime of the Ancient Mariner, _Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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><p><strong>ii.<strong>

**upon her painted ocean.**

She has taken to spending her days at the Chantry. Prayers and chants ricochet off the walls, echoing in the empty church; a reminder of a faithless world, a city that has long-since forgotten the Maker. Her own prayers are said to herself, spoken under breath, head bowed, hands clasped, and it occupies half of her monotonous day, at least. But the cycle is repeating itself and wearing thin on her; day after day, week after week, she is before the statue of Andraste, time drawing itself out slowly like a bad Orlesian play that has no ending.

And her prayers go unanswered. Is it because of her condition? Her sin? She really thought she would have it all figured out by now. It has been a year since her brother's death; five since her father's. She is older, more experienced, yet she feels younger, like a child without guidance or direction. She claws at faith in hope that something will change, but it never does; the demonic temptation grows and grows within her, gaining strength every day, and without distraction, she is vulnerable. Vulnerable to them, vulnerable to herself. She finds no weakness in the realisation, but it is more out of stubborn refusal than truth.

The real truth is a hard and bitter pill to swallow.

Heart coiled together like a ribbon, Bethany Hawke steps back from the statue, breathing deeply the cool, floral air of the Chantry. It's near-empty now that the morning sermons are over, and she lets her gaze explore the expanse freely without the paranoia of fifty pairs of eyes watching her. Cracks and flakes of paint scatter the surface of the walls, revealing the crumbling marble underneath. It is old, this building. Older than she could ever imagine. She wants to know the stories it holds—the ancient world it was built upon—and she wants to touch everything—to feel the hard marble, the cold gold linings, the soft tapestries beneath her fingertips—but she is stuck, hidden in the shadows, trying to not draw attention to herself.

And in the shadows he is, too. For a full minute, she does not even realise he is there. He moves towards her—glides, almost—metal armour clanging loudly, breaking the silence and snatching her attention away from the architecture. His eyes stare straight through her, assessing carefully. They are the brightest blue she has ever seen.

"What could blessed lady such as yourself need to pray for, Serah?" the Templar asks. His voice is the darkest depths of the ocean.

"I am blessed because I pray," she replies confidently. But she does not feel confident—her heart pounds against her chest, uneven beats of nerves and anxiety. He takes another intimidating step towards her, into the warm light. The insignia on his chest gleams brightly, taunting her. "Why do you ask, Ser?"

"It is my duty to ask. It is my duty to find suspicious behaviour. A lady praying from dawn to afternoon, every day, warrants curiosity." His blue eyes narrow, pressing against her skin like the point of a dagger. "Does it not?"

"I—"

"People pray to resolve their sins," he interrupts, louder, harsher. Colder. "Have you sinned, Serah?"

Before she was Eden Hawke's sister and the apostate mage, Bethany was a little girl peering through the crack in the tent flap. His name was Carver, and he was the first Templar she ever saw. He stood six metres away, armour shinier than anything her five-year-old eyes had ever seen. It glinted and gleamed and clanged as he moved his arms animatedly in conversation with her mother, deep baritone voice rumbling through the small slit in his helmet. He was everything the Templars represented to her—tall, strong, and dedicated. He was the prophet of the Maker, completing his worldly duties as only a mortal could.

But this man is different. No prophet, but a man whose sword is crimson with the blood of mages. He moves closer, into her shadow, face cruel as he studies her, waiting for her to crack and the wounds to show. Waiting for her to snap and the magic to trickle out, and bleed and bleed and bleed. He wants a victory, but she will not give it to him. For the sake of her family, she must not.

_Maker, give me strength._

"Tell me, Ser, who has not sinned?"

A scowl shadows his face, though he does not say a word. Time is drawn out, the air thin and feeble from the tension that stretches between them, and her fists open, close, open, close, sweaty from fear and courage and impatience.

Eventually, he moves to the side, words dripping with spite as he speaks. "I will be watching you, Serah. The Chantry cannot protect you forever."

Her cue to leave. Without hesitation, Bethany sweeps past the Templar, making her way towards the towering doors of the church. She pulls the hood of her gown over her bowed head as she passes the sisters that line the hall in chant, hiding the scarlet cheeks and the small relieved smile that dances across her lips.

It is a minor victory for the youngest Hawke. Small and feeble with a dark, ominous truth lingering behind it, like a dripping faucet in the back of her mind: _he knows, he knows, he knows_. _She_ should know better; _she_ should be more aware. Her father never taught her to be so conspicuous, and now, with that Templar on her trail, she is to pay the price for her reckless behaviour.

Bethany grits her teeth. She is so _sick_ of running.

The sun is warm on her skin as she exits the building, and the colours of Kirkwall dance in the golden sunlight—a myriad of browns and reds and yellows against the gorgeous blue sky. The Chantry courtyard itself is strangely empty on such a beautiful afternoon, save for one man. He has in his hand papers—a small pile, perhaps twenty slips—and he takes the steps to the church in twos, face twisted in annoyance.

Perhaps he is seeking solace within the building's walls. Perhaps he is looking for someone—or some_thing_. Whatever it is, he looks angered enough, and makes to sweep past Bethany in a rush; but instead of letting him pass her by, she steps onto his path.

Though full of unchecked magic, curiosity has always been Bethany Hawke's greatest sin.

"Oh, Ser, my apologies—I mustn't have been watching my step!"

The light collision has her desired effect, and in his surprise the man drops his papers. They catch the breeze, skimming the concrete surface across the courtyard and disappearing down into the Hightown markets.

His mouth forms a thin line as his papers disappear, but when he speaks his voice is gentle and forgiving. "No, I am sorry, my lady. I let my anger get the better of me—more attention to my surrounds should have been paid."

She studies him carefully. He is pleasing to the eye, with sharp, defined features and light, olive skin. His eyes reflect the sky above; a warm, glittering blue, but they are also sad, pained. She can see it clearly, hidden away beneath his welcome facade.

She frowns. "You're angry?"

"It is nothing, Lady—" His pauses, blue eyes studying her face carefully.

She feels herself warm underneath the examining gaze. "Bethany Hawke. Just, Bethany, though—um…" She chuckles softly. "I'm not much of a lady."

He raises one brow, extending his hand for her to shake. "Sebastian Vael, of Starkhaven. It is a pleasure to meet you, _Lady_ Hawke." Sebastian pauses, eyes thoughtful, and muses, "I daresay I have heard that name before."

She takes his hand, briefly, feeling her cheeks _burn_ at the contact. When he lets go, she sweeps her hair off her face and across her cheek, hoping to wipe away some of the embarrassment. She feels ridiculous.

"My sister goes by Hawke," she explains.

"Ah, yes." He eyes flit to the ground, as if searching for something, before they return back to her. He smiles warmly then—as bright and as vibrant as the sun on her cheeks. "She did me a favour, not long ago. As her sister, it seems I am in your debt, as much as I am in hers."

Bethany giggles, scratching her chest and looking out across the courtyard of the Chantry. A sister walks the length of the area, but other than her, the two are alone. "She won't like to hear that."

He says, "She need not know."

A small smirk. "Indeed."

He laughs then, wide smile spreading across his features, blue eyes glittering like the surface of the ocean. Once he calms, there is a silence as he looks to the sky. His face darkens briefly. "It is getting late, Lady Hawke, and I must take my leave." He looks at her directly then, pinning her beneath his gaze. "It has been a pleasure to meet you. I hope this is not the last time."

"As do I."

He inclines his head towards her, before turning to the Chantry. Bethany watches as he slips through the doors, mind racing, hearting hammering against her chest, desperate to escape. She does not know how long she stands there, staring at the closed doors, but by the time she leaves the sun is setting and is dusk descending on Kirkwall in a depressing, dull glow.

She takes the longer route to her uncle's house, counting the amount of steps, the seconds that pass. Her deliberation weighs heavily in her chest, and the silence of the town is a stark contrast to the silence that had filled the Chantry—colder, as though it is suffocating her.

_One-hundred and thirty-two. One-hundred—_

The sound of a boot crunching on pavement stops her, frozen solid in the empty Lowtown Bazaar. Her stomach drops, fear trickling down her spine, skin erupting in a million, tiny goosebumps. She listens carefully, waiting for it again, but there is nothing except silence—impenetrable, heavy silence.

Bethany lets out a breath that she did not realise she was holding in. It is hard to let go. Heart full, she hurries away, steps faster and more desperate to get home than before. When she finally rounds the corner, her uncle's slum stands before her like a beacon—beautiful and safe and _warm_.

She is almost there, until a cold hand wraps around her wrist, forcing her still.

Her world collapses. Sounds and colours fade into dullness, and she feels the Templar breathing behind her, motionless; sees the knife at her back—envisions her death as the sword slides into her stomach—

"—thany?"

She blinks. That voice is familiar.

"Hello?"

The hand on her wrist yanks, and Bethany spins around to face her older sister.

"Eden." The word is unnatural, forced from her mouth, hanging between them like a promise. The slums around Bethany ignite as she stares at her. Relief floods her body and weakens her knees. All she can say is, "What are you doing out here?" but she wants to say more. So much more.

"Meeran said I was to meet someone." Eden's grey eyes narrow, and she asks, "You? I thought you would be with mother."

"I was at…" She trails off, glancing over her shoulder. It is only Eden and herself in the area, and she breathes in deeply, attempting to calm her chaotic heart. When had she become so paranoid? "Who are you meeting?"

Eden shrugs, beginning to walk. "Unsure. Anders was busy, so I was coming to get you. I don't think there will be any trouble, but—"

Bethany smiles, falling into step beside her. "You always manage to find trouble, sister."

"One of my many talents."

Before they disappear around the corner to the Bazaar, Bethany cannot help but steal another glance back towards the slums.

And in the distance, between the shadows of lamps, she sees a flash of silver metal, and the darkened insignia of a Templar.


End file.
